


Sleeping Dogs Lie

by flannelcastiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-30 00:33:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flannelcastiel/pseuds/flannelcastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel should have let Dean be; no one ever told the angel to let sleeping dogs lie.<br/>Behind-the-scenes in season 4.<br/>My first attempt at Supernatural fanfiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleeping Dogs Lie

Castiel hadn’t intended to watch the elder Winchester brother while he slept, but it wasn’t as if he were given any choice. After all, when Dean called, Castiel came.

His wings swept around him, carrying him toward the whisper which fell from the mortal’s lips. Since Castiel pulled him from the deep recesses of hell, his voice stood out among the murmuring of prayers.

Often, the angel was concerned by this connection, why Dean had on many occasions proven to be the exception to the rule. The rule being the line he’d always drawn between himself and humans, between immortality and mortality. Perhaps it was due to his new obsession with free will. His vessel’s heart sunk when those words crossed his thoughts: free will. It was free will that caused Lucifer to be cast from heaven, to become a creature that was not human, and no longer an angel of the Lord.

He was not his older brother—Castiel was, above all, loyal to God. He may have had his doubts, his inhibitions (both of which he regretted and felt eternally guilty about possessing) but he defended the creatures that God loved above all.

And he was content, at least for the most part, being the red-headed step child. Humans, he learned, were amazing creatures. Castiel caught himself wanting to live among them.

This was the reason, Castiel decided, he was attached to Dean. Never in his thousands of years had he seen a human with so much strength, cunning, and resilience. He had met kings, conversed with martyrs, but never had he seen a man who could rise from the depths of Hell, literally, and strive to do so much good.

A normal man, even a man with the purest of hearts and strongest of faiths, wouldn’t come from back from hell unscathed.

Well—Dean was not completely unscathed. That was clear as Castiel suddenly stood at the edge of his bed. When he realized the murmur of his name was indeed a murmur, one that comes from sleeping lips, Castiel felt the sudden need to live. He wasn’t human, but he knew that watching one sleep was odd. If he were caught, Dean might—look at him funny. Why this was important to Castiel was lost among him.

But he didn’t leave. Instead, he was frozen solid before Dean’s bed. He was—fascinated. Deans lips moved quietly, quick breaths only moving through them. His brows were furrowed, as if he were in pain. But he was merely sleeping and Castiel did not sense that he was ill. With his limited knowledge of human emotion, Castiel observed.

Was this what fear looked like?

“Cas,” the abbreviation of Castiel’s name, a term of endearment, sent a shiver down his spine. The moment felt so human, perhaps because he liked feeling close to someone. And there was no other human he was closer to than Dean.

The angel took a step closer to the bed, quiet as usual. The darkness parted just a little bit more, the dampness under Dean’s eyes visible. Should Castiel wake him from his nightmare—would that be the right thing to do? Or would Dean be angry that he was woken?

Or angry that Castiel was watching?

He began to chew on his lip—a very human twitch, Castiel realized—and an even deeper instinct pressed him closer, close enough to where he could lay a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

And his conscience won; Castiel nudged Dean from unconsciousness, causing the man to shoot up from his sleeping position. Dean’s eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, green eyes squinting up at the angel with confusion—and then anger.

“What’ya want, Cas,” he asked bitterly, groggily. Castiel’s lips opened and closed, evidence of his inability to form coherent speech. How oddly, petulant of his vessel.

“I sensed you were having a nightmare.” It wasn’t a completely lie; wasn’t hearing a sensory device? He wasn’t about to mention to the man that ‘Castiel’ fell from his sleeping lips, clearly begging for help. The angel knew the man was far too proud to own up to it, so what was the point. “I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Dean’s lips curled in mock disgust. “So this is what you’re tellin’ me: sometimes me and my brother beg and plead you to come down and save our lilly asses and ya’ come just to pluck me from a bad dream? Your calendar free or somethin’?”

“I don’t keep a calendar, Dean.”

“‘Ya know what I mean, asshole,” he groaned back, flopping into the dirty hotel mattress with a thud. “You know what, tell me your reason later. In the morning.” Dean rolled onto his side, pulling his disheveled sheets over his head I’m going back to sleep.”

“Very well,” Castiel murmured back, eyebrows furrowing with slight worry, though Dean couldn’t sense this since he was hidden beneath blankets. However, Dean still sensed his presence and took it upon himself to throw a pillow at the angel.

“Go away, Castiel. Tired as hell, over here.”

Reluctantly, the angel billowed away, enraptured by the celestial energy which pulsed from his wings. The thought that came as he left faded quickly, only because he feared the repercussions in his own mind.

What if Dean’s dreams were of hell?  
—  
The following days were of little consequence; in the face of the Winchester brother’s celestial demise, at the hands of Castiel’s elder brothers, the continued hunting. They were resilient beings, Castiel mused as he watched and listened from above; their bravery and solidarity was admirable.

Nevertheless, they were incredibly human.

It was because of this that Castiel beared no judgment or ill-will when Dean’s thoughts turned frantic in nature,  pulling the strings petulantly bound to the void where Castiel’s soul would be. If he had one.

He quickly made his way to the cheap motel where the brothers found refuge that particular night. Dean was tangled in his sheets, sweat beaded on his hairline as he mumbled incoherently help, help, no, stop. Listening made Castiel feel infinitely uncomfortable, but not for the reasons he expected. Being an angel meant watching over others, but he knew that the knot between Dean’s mind and his allowed a different kind of invasion; Castiel should feel guilty for letting the limbs of his mind probe Dean’s, if only to bring him a little peace. He doesn’t though—he only feels guilty for letting Dean’s nightmare continue.

“Castiel…” He hasn’t expected his full name to be murmured on Dean’s lips—nor did he anticipate the odd reaction the sound elicited. The angel instantly recognized it was improper, though in ways he could hardly interpret with his ignorance of human interaction.

Castiel started, about to do what he did best: unfurl his wings and pluck himself from the moment before he could understand what was happening.

He hesitated, though, just long enough for his name to reach his ears once again.

“Cas?”

That voice, gruff and groggy, was clearly awake; Dean’s murmur was almost a request, as if the drozy man knew exactly what Castiel was about to do. He, after all, left Dean alone without a word often.

Except now he was motionless, despite every fiber of sense demanding him to carry himself far away.

Emerald drops pierced through the darkness, although Castiel could see perfectly the rest of the room seemed black. Dean gazed at him, wordlessly grasping for something.

“Dean,” he whispered back. “You were having another nightmare.” Castiel felt a pang—what would the brothers call him? Captain Obvious?

Though, he underestimated the elder brother, who only murmured, “not anymore.” Dean sat up on his elbows, staring oddly at the angel. If Castiel were not mistaken, he would say the man was grateful. His tongue was numb, words unable to flow eloquently off his lips. What could he say to that?

Castiel took a small step forward, only inches from Dean’s mattress; the human flinched at his presence, eyes frantically moving away. But Castiel could not look away from Dean.

“You—you can go, I’m fine,” Dean murmured, disposition shifting, perhaps because he shed the confusion which came with came with unconsciousness and the moments that followed.

“I can. But you must rest in my absence.” His voice was cold, distant, forcibly so.

Dean stared dumbly at the angel, wondering why the moment he asked to be alone the angel didn’t leave. “You aren’t my mother, Cas.” He rolled over onto his side, facing away from Castiel. “Just go.”

Castiel faded into the space between universes, where he could see but not be seen; hear but not be heard. And it was soft crying, filled with shame and sorrow, that filled his sensitive ears.


End file.
